


They crash at last, these fabricated lovers

by lemonpika



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Eventual Sex, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hunter Exam (Hunter X Hunter), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Post-Yorkshin City | Yorknew City Arc (Hunter X Hunter), Yorkshin City | Yorknew City Arc (Hunter X Hunter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29507577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonpika/pseuds/lemonpika
Summary: Kurapika’s preferred method of stress relief? Picturing Leorio in place of the heroes in the romance novels he reads.Leorio’s favorite secret hobby, which may or may not feature Kurapika? It’s not quite as sappy, but infinitely more embarrassing.After the events of the Yorknew City arc, they both meet in the public library.~ Featuring art by @HeyHaleyHAE ~
Relationships: Kurapika & Leorio Paladiknight, Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight
Comments: 31
Kudos: 66





	1. Exposition, or where Kurapika sets up a romantic hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by lemonpika ([@ilyilaice](https://twitter.com/ilyilaice)).  
> Illustrated by HeyItsHAE ([@HeyHaleyHAE](https://twitter.com/HeyHaleyHAE)).

There are books of all sorts and subjects to keep them occupied — to while away the fifty hours that Leorio squandered in a reckless attempt to acquaint himself with the dips and curves of a woman’s shape — but Kurapika selects a classic romance from the shelves. Only then does he retreat into his bubble. As Gon enlightens Killua about the proper manner of baiting and hooking dinner in the wild outdoors, and as Leorio drifts to slumber over cotton cushions, Kurapika suspends himself in an imagined realm, far above the earthly occurrences of this temporary confinement.

Kurapika fully comprehends, of course, that his time will be most intelligently spent in rigorous study of science, art, and history, for what else must a Pro Hunter be but disciplined in mentality as well as physicality? Who’s to say that the fourth phase will not involve a traditional examination to test this very mental acuity? Romance, however, is the sole guilty pleasure that Kurapika permits himself beyond the single-minded fixation on his goals. Romance is relief stolen from the prearranged words in minds more placid than his own. More often than not, the genre provides common-trodden twists and turns, a denouement tied neatly with silken ribbons, perhaps even the conclusive clang of wedding bells. 

Boy meets girl, and for weeks or months or years afterward, the prospective couple engages in this push-and-pull of warring wills — a token resistance to a predestined conclusion that the reader has already divined a dozen chapters prior. There is comfort in this predictability, a palpable catharsis as the heroine crashes for the last time into the hero’s arms. She stays with him for good, and all the feuding and the falling out of love that come afterward — as they must — are wisely left off the page. Reality is burdensome enough without bleeding into fictional escapes.

While the fabrication of love frequently adheres to this general framework and all its accompanying tropes, the particularities ensure that every retelling is fresh. In the present iteration in Kurapika’s hands, aptly titled _Seduction by the Simulacra,_ the hero is a spy tasked with infiltrating the innermost workings of an organized crime syndicate. He meets and falls at the feet of a good woman, as violent men in fiction often do, and comes to worship even the dirt over which she walks. Swearing from this point onward to emulate his heroine’s pacifist ideals — to raise his revolver only to defend and never to maim — he then works to extract his heroine from her myriad entanglements with the seedy underbelly of their city, ranging from the debts that she must pay on behalf of her departed ancestors, to the bejeweled family heirlooms that she must recover from the black market.

Love as redemption for the hero, and love as salvation for the heroine. It’s a story that Kurapika has read any number of times before, but the particularities in this instance incite a curious effervescence within his chest. The author’s description of the hero, to be specific, strikes an all-too-familiar chord, or several at once. Cassander Sol, as the hero is called, towers over everyone around him. He has broad shoulders, black hair fashioned into spikes, and small eyes the color of coffee grounds, with the same invigorating impact as a straight shot of espresso. Whether in the dead of night or in the height of noon, he wears his signature sunglasses, supposedly to retain a permanent dark partition between himself and the world.

Kurapika chances a surreptitious glance over his current romance, just in time to see the hook from Gon’s fishing rod snare a loosened thread on the cuff of Leorio’s trousers.

“Right on target!” Killua whoops, brandishing the fishing rod in triumph as Gon cheers beside him.

Unceremoniously jerked awake by the yanking motions on his ankle, Leorio grumbles, telling the two children to knock it off. But the mischievous stars in Killua’s eyes only glimmer, brighter than ever. Rather than heeding Leorio’s entreaties to set him free, Killua doubles down on reeling him in. 

Kurapika’s jaw drops as, with a vigorous tug from Killua, Leorio’s trousers slide down his backside, liberally exposing the crack of his buttocks.

Seeking to conceal the flames that have swallowed his face with an alarming rapidity, Kurapika buries behind the pages of his book again. His eyes dart swiftly from sentence to sentence even as Leorio begins bickering with the sniggering Tonpa.

Just now, what was Kurapika even imagining? How can he think of comparing _Leorio,_ of all people on God’s green earth, to Cassander the wise, Cassander the gentle, Cassander the brave. . . .

At the moment, Kurapika is doing whatever he can to forget every wise, gentle, and brave feat that he’s already witnessed his new companion accomplish. The way that Leorio cleverly tricked Majtani into betraying his bluff, when Kurapika’s refusal to kill the prisoner threatened to jeopardize the entire team’s chances of clearing the Hunter Exam. The way that Leorio earnestly treated the injuries of a Kiriko in disguise with the first-aid supplies he stows in his suitcase. The way that Leorio dove forward, with barely a flicker of hesitation, to save a stranger who’d pitched over the side of a storm-ravaged ship.

Try as he might, Kurapika can’t get Leorio and all his virtues out of his mind as he continues consuming every tension-filled scenario in the book. Even when Kurapika arrives at the ending — his heart squeezing with hitherto unknown intensity as Cassander finally kisses the heroine in the forty-fourth chapter — he can’t bring himself to meet Leorio’s eyes as he traverses the room to single out his next romance. Another tale, perhaps, that will allow him to indulge in this newfound fancy.

As Kurapika’s fingers trail over the spines, a shadow darkens his view of the embossed titles and authorial credits.

“Was your last book any good?” a deep voice rumbles over Kurapika’s head.

If Cassander were a real person — flesh and blood like the flesh and blood behind Kurapika now — would his voice sound like Leorio’s? Kurapika has to wonder.

As Kurapika turns around to face Leorio, the proximity between their bodies forces him to brush against the expanse of Leorio’s muscular chest. Kurapika looks up at his face, but Leorio is not at all returning his gaze, preoccupied as he is with scanning the uppermost row of books, far beyond Kurapika’s reach.

From this position, Leorio can so easily pin Kurapika’s thin wrists against the shelf. Leorio can lean in, slow and steady, the way Cassander did at the end of the novel, with brown eyes begging silently for consent to the long-awaited contact of their lips. In an alternate universe where Leorio sees Kurapika as Kurapika is seeing him now, will Kurapika, just like the heroine, say yes?

Leorio tilts his head downward to stare. Kurapika feels his eyes go wide and his body turn rigid, at least until the disappointing realization of Leorio’s true intentions surges over him. Leorio is simply waiting for an answer to his earlier question, not steeling himself for a passionate lock of lips.

“The story’s sheer amount of coincidences and conveniences left much to be desired,” Kurapika tells Leorio now. “Its language, however, was undeniably evocative.”

“Eh. . . .” 

Just as Kurapika has hoped, this cryptic response instantly saps Leorio’s interest in his preferred reading material. Leorio snatches a book with a scientific illustration of a skeleton on the cover and saunters off without another word.

Turning back toward the shelf, Kurapika haphazardly grabs around twenty titles that sound at least vaguely romantic before returning to his makeshift reading nook. Better to minimize as much as possible the necessity for return trips to the bookshelves and, consequently, such dangerous encounters with Cassander’s doppelganger.

Kurapika dives back into the hallowed halls of make-believe again, but the face that he’s trying to escape accosts him wherever he turns. His mind persistently casts Leorio in the role of romantic lead, regardless of the actual character’s profession, physique, or peculiarities. 

Worse than that, however, is the role to which Kurapika finds himself relegated during these fantasies. As exhausted as he’s historically been of correcting every brute who misgenders him as a woman, he can’t avoid projecting himself onto these delicate romantic heroines, who will more often than not stand in stark contrast to the macho men who seek to protect them from the perils of the outside world, who seek to possess them once they’re alone behind closed doors.

Leorio is the charming prince who visits from a neighboring kingdom, while Kurapika is the mythical princess who loses her memories as well as her crown. Leorio is the fireman who offers the spare room in his apartment, while Kurapika is the single mother of two whose house has been razed into ashes. Leorio is the veteran pilot who valiantly attempts to wrest control of a careening airship, while Kurapika is the bright-eyed tourist in a floppy hat who breaks both legs upon landing but who nevertheless winds up being the sole passenger to survive the tragic crash.

As the time spent in this locked room dwindles away, Kurapika reimagines himself as all these different personas who don different costumes and fight different obstacles. Always, in the end, every manufactured challenge eventually melts away as his hero, Leorio, comes thundering closer on his literal or metaphorical white horse.

By the time the buzzer goes off to signal the passage of fifty hours, Kurapika can safely say that he’s leaving the room with a most inconvenient infatuation that he didn’t harbor before.

With beaten bodies and blistered hands, they manage to make their way from the third phase to the fourth. Even as the boat speeds toward the penultimate stage, Zevil Island, the battle prematurely permeates the air around the remaining twenty-four applicants. As for his own plate, No. 404, Kurapika has already slipped it from its prior position over his heart into a hidden pocket sewn beneath his tabard.

Kurapika can’t ignore Leorio’s fidgeting beside him. Is he Leorio’s target for this round? Is this what Leorio is trying to tell him? Must he lose yet another person that he’s come to care for?

Leorio says that Kurapika shouldn’t expect any mercy from him, and feigning indifference, Kurapika echoes this sentiment.

Leorio is sizing him up, Kurapika can sense it, wondering at his chances at overpowering Kurapika. In all actuality, Leorio won’t experience any trouble whatsoever knocking Kurapika down. Leorio is unaware, however, of a failsafe that Kurapika has always kept in his bag since he was twelve — an opaque bottle filled to the brim with isopropyl alcohol, preserving the entomological embodiment of his sworn enemy. In case of emergencies, Kurapika only needs to unscrew the cap, which then triggers his scarlet eyes and enables him to effortlessly neutralize threats several times his strength and size.

But as it serves no purpose to continue letting Leorio see him, even hypothetically, as an adversary, Kurapika freely reveals the truth: Leorio isn’t Kurapika’s target, at least not in a way that should cause him any concern.

This admission visibly dispels the jitters from Leorio’s expression. “You’re not my target either!” he calls as Kurapika walks away.

Kurapika has to smile despite himself.

Staying low and close to thickets, Kurapika shadows No. 16, his prey. Tracking his target this way, Kurapika nimbly notices that he and Tonpa share a similar preoccupation with Leorio, although Tonpa’s interest is decidedly more malignant. As Tonpa strikes up an alliance with No. 118, Sommy, he’s thanking the heavens for assigning him a target as gullible as Leorio.

Kurapika’s blood boils as the bastard boisterously outlines his nefarious plan to steal Leorio’s number plate. But to actually observe the execution of these deceptive steps, this artifice as it unfolds before his very eyes. . . . Kurapika must repeatedly remind himself to lie in wait until the timing is right. If he wishes to assist Leorio, he can’t afford to lose the element of surprise.

Tonpa is clutching his tummy as Leorio crouches to unclasp his checkered suitcase. Tonpa has agreed to trade information about Leorio’s target — No. 246, Ponzu — for a few of the antidiarrheal tablets stashed away with Leorio’s possessions, among other basic medications that an aspiring physician might keep handy.

Alerted to a rustle overhead, Leorio darts away in time as Sommy descends from the trees to attack him. Bottles of herbal creams and ointments, rolls upon rolls of bandages, silver sheets of analgesics and ibuprofen — all these things come tumbling out from Leorio’s gaping suitcase as Sommy’s pet monkey springs forward to pluck Leorio’s plate, No. 403, as planned.

It’s nearly time for Kurapika to step away from the sidelines and propose an alliance with Leorio. Once he’s done so, he can openly watch Leorio’s back — sinewy and strong — as Leorio purports to watch him in return. No matter what, Kurapika must not reveal his secret motives for wanting to partner with Leorio, must never forget that he can only stay by Leorio’s side as a friend.

Isn’t it pointless for Kurapika to aspire to achieve anything beyond this lucky hand that he’s already been dealt? All these ridiculous reveries about Leorio, Kurapika should banish them to his books, to his daydreams.


	2. Inciting incident, or where Leorio drinks and muddles things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by lemonpika ([@ilyilaice](https://twitter.com/ilyilaice)).  
> Illustrated by HeyItsHAE ([@HeyHaleyHAE](https://twitter.com/HeyHaleyHAE)).

Highlighting his parasitology textbook in a rainbow of hues. Leorio slogs through an hour of this, maybe two. Then it’s high time for a good old break. Gotta stretch his limbs, gotta make like daddy long-legs trotting through the shelves. 

It’s sunshine outside, cotton-swab clouds drifting across the blue. Stuck inside the local library like this, robbed of the unbroken yolk of the sun, Leorio can think of a billion ways to better spend a fine spring’s day. Open an ice-cold beer, for instance. Appreciate that malty magic coursing down his throat.

Just imagining the taste, Leorio moans. Loudly. Obscenely. He claps a hand over his mouth, but it’s too late now. A stranger, doomed to be in Leorio’s orbit, stiffens at the sound.

As a flimsy attempt to cover up, Leorio coughs. He scuttles toward the nearest shelf to grab a book and book it outta there. Ah! _Seduction by the Simulacra!_ This will do nicely!

Leorio borrowed this once before. The familiar title brought back a nostalgic image — Kurapika, at peace in his bubble of books despite the commotion Leorio cooked up around him. Leorio meant to clock in some light reading between heavy medical volumes. But that’s not what happened. Instead, Leorio binged all the chapters beneath the covers one night. Shadows deepening in his dormitory room. Pages rustling. Flashlight sputtering at intervals. The novel went beyond a story, really. Leorio swallowed every sliver of melodrama. Committed each to memory.

Now, as Leorio reaches out, his hand collides with the stranger’s beside him. They’re both aiming to borrow the same book, at the same time? What a weird coincidence.

Then Leorio looks to his right, and things only turn ten times weirder.

“Kurapika?”

The name leaves Leorio’s mouth as a question, but who else can this person be? Golden hair in disarray. Cooped-up pallor to his skin. Button-down rumpled over narrow shoulders, skinny hips. Clumsy knot, a crooked tie. Black contacts concealing the softness of his eyes. 

Kurapika stares back, just as surprised. “Leorio, what are you doing here?”

Shock gives way to pleasure now. Smiling loopily, Leorio smooshes down Kurapika’s blond cowlicks with his palm. “Me? I’m a student, so I’m studying! Of course! And what are _you_ doing in the library? Which poor bastard are you terrorizing? Don’t think I won’t report your mafia dealings to the front desk just ’cause we’re friends!”

Kurapika bats Leorio’s hand away from his head, but petal pink blooms high on his cheeks. “Keep your voice down, unless you want me to report you for desecrating the sanctity of this academic space.”

“Hey, we Pro Hunters should get together every chance we get! Let’s go out! Let’s drink!”

“I can’t drink. Come to think of it, can you?”

Leorio thumps his fist against his chest. “Turned twenty-one last week! Besides, won’t you be nineteen next month? Live a little! If you don’t want anyone to see you breaking the rules, let’s do it in my dorm room!”

Kurapika turns back toward the shelf. He extracts _Seduction by the Simulacra,_ appears to weigh it on his palm. “Hmm. Why not. I happen to be off from work this week.”

“Seriously? Awesome! You free the entire week?”

“The entire week, yes. Perhaps even the entire month.” Kurapika narrows his dark eyes. “Who even knows at this point?”

Leorio hesitates, curiosity piqued by the mystery of these words. But Kurapika doesn’t elaborate, and Leorio doesn’t pry. “I’ll go pick up my stuff. Check out that book, if you want.”

“Are you sure? Weren’t you intending to borrow this too?”

“I can do it after you. I’ve already read it before.”

Leorio returns to his table to sweep his textbooks into his suitcase. He proffers a silent salute to his med-school buddies. Half of them reply with sleepy nods. The other half, they smother snores against saliva-slick pages.

When Leorio walks up to the front desk, Kurapika greets him with a smile this time. “Leorio, allow me to make up for missing your birthday. I’ll pay for the alcohol, okay? What do you feel like having?”

“Beer! A jumbo barrel of beer! You heard me moaning earlier, didn’t you? That’s only ’cause I was picturing popping open —”

“It’s just as I was telling you, Miss Librarian,” Kurapika interrupts as he accepts the book from the woman behind the counter. “This peculiar person beside me, he’s been offending the delicate sensibilities of your other patrons with such lascivious acts.”

Leorio’s eyes pop. “Wha —?! You were the only one who heard me, Kurapika! Don’t go spreading shady rumors about me!”

The elderly librarian only waves a shaky hand to dismiss them. Tremor characteristic of Parkinson’s. “You young people. You never cease to amuse me with your exuberance. You should be out there, enjoying the afternoon air, instead of cooped up inside here with me. Do have a wonderful day, Leorio dear. Remember to make responsible choices.”

Leorio flashes a thumbs-up. “You know me! I bring just the right dash of irresponsibility!”

Sitting side by side on a rattling train. The conspiratorial babble of middle school students. Office workers conducting hushed conversations over the phone. On the far end, toddlers wailing on their mothers’ laps.

As Kurapika flips through the pages of his novel, Leorio watches. Not directly, no. Not in a manner that will cause Kurapika suspicion. On the window opposite, Kurapika’s almost motionless mirror image is made turbulent by the scenery they’re leaving behind — buildings blurring, markets bustling, pale graves stippling sprawling green cemetery grounds.

In all the chaos of their city, who can blame Kurapika for retreating into romantic fantasy? When Kurapika pauses for a breath — halts in his hunt for the eyes of his brethren — is love what he dreams about in the interim?

This has always fascinated Leorio. This discrepancy, this duality. When Leorio borrowed that same book, he found the first breadcrumbs, began to follow their trail. Clue after clue. Layer upon layer. Pink lipstick. A white-blond wig. Chunky sunglasses. A bottled spider, doused in isopropyl alcohol.

Soon, an inescapable truth: Kurapika is not all he seems. One must chip away, patiently, at a carefully constructed exterior to witness glimpses of the tenderness beneath.

A faint pressure on Leorio’s leg. He snaps back to the current time, to the reality of Kurapika’s hand on his thigh. The chains around Kurapika’s fingers glitter in the fluorescence overhead. Winking, perhaps.

Leorio’s throat is suddenly dry as a desert. His voice crackles out. “What — what do you want?”

“Your pants are soaked. Look.” Kurapika’s index finger prods at Leorio’s calf, where a dark spot is spreading. It’s moisture from the canned beers, which are crammed into a paper bag and tucked between Leorio’s legs.

“Ah! Damn it.”

“Here. Transfer the bag to my lap.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, but Leorio knows one thing for sure. He should stay _as far away as possible_ from Kurapika’s lap. Or from Kurapika’s body, in general. His track record at controlling himself around Kurapika — or his likeness — is grim at best. “Forget it. We’re almost there anyway.”

Leorio shoves a stack of videotapes under his unmade bed. Why does he always leave this bullshit lying around? He never learns! Jeez!

Leaning against the doorframe, Kurapika observes. “Anything I can do to help?”

“No! Stay right there!”

Leorio manages to make enough space for Kurapika. Once he’s done, he rubs his palms. Winces upon hearing a muted crash. That must be the tower of tapes, toppling over.

Kurapika tries to sit on the bed, but Leorio swiftly steers him to the floor. If Kurapika catches even a whiff of those pillows. . . .

From the closet, Leorio plucks a pair of pants. “Heading to the bathroom for a bit. Gotta change.”

“Aren’t we both men? You can change right here.”

Leorio snorts. “I’m doing this for your benefit, Princess Prissy. I’ll be back before you can blink! Don’t start without me!”

But of course, on the way back from the bathroom, the floor supervisor accosts Leorio in the corridor. He’s on Leorio’s case about late-night noises. Leorio nods. Promptly hums at every lull in the upperclassman’s tirade. 

By the time Leorio escapes, Kurapika has stretched across his sheets. Empty beer can crushed in his chained hand.

“What did I tell you about the bed?” Leorio demands, arms folded as he stands over Kurapika. “Off-limits!”

Kurapika sits up and slurs all his words. “You said — you said we’d drink together. Why aren’t you drinking with me?”

Heaving a sigh, Leorio sinks down beside him. Leorio reaches for a beer from the paper bag, but it’s empty. Another can. Hollow again. “How’d you chug so much so fast? You said you didn’t drink!”

“I don’t.” Kurapika rubs his reddish nose. “I needed this though. Maybe.”

Leorio digs deep, rummaging until his fingers close around a full can. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No. Nothing’s going on.”

This statement more or less confirms that something _is_ going on. But Leorio stays silent, takes a giant gulp. Grimaces. The booze is lukewarm now. Blech.

Just as Leorio starts to stand up, a force yanks him back. He flops down on the bed, liquor spilling over his shirt.

Leorio is about to yell. But black eyes loom suddenly over his face, strike him like a solar eclipse. Scarlet-ringed. A warning.

“Leaving again?” Kurapika’s voice is deathly quiet. “You’re always leaving me.”

Something stirs in Leorio’s chest, something stirs below. This is not good. Not good at all. He pushes Kurapika away. “Why’re you being so dramatic? I was only gonna get us some ice! Enjoy your warm beer, for all I care!”

Leorio stomps toward the fridge. Yanks the freezer open. Slams down an ice tray by the sink. Cracks the cubes, lobs them into a glass.

When Leorio gets back to bed, he beckons a mug of water toward Kurapika. “Here,” Leorio huffs. “You were drinking way too fast. You need to rehydrate now.”

“Thanks.” Kurapika takes a tiny sip, then lifts his gaze to Leorio’s face. Eyes devoid of color once more. “Sorry about your shirt.”

Leorio only grunts in response. He fetches a fresh drink, pours it into the glass of ice. Swills it all around to let the cold seep out.

“Won’t you take off your shirt, Leorio? That looks uncomfortable.”

Setting his drink aside, Leorio begins to unfasten the buttons. By the time he shrugs off his shirt, Kurapika is leaning back against the pillows, staring openly at Leorio’s bare chest. Is Kurapika . . . not even going to pretend he isn’t? He can peek behind his blond lashes, exploit his peripheral vision. But he makes no such attempt to hide his admiration.

Leorio decides not to don another shirt. They’re both men, so it doesn’t — shouldn’t — matter, right?

Though every instinct screams that it’s a bad idea, Leorio meets Kurapika’s eyes. One look is all it takes, and Leorio is knocking back his beer, pouring out another. Anything to fog up his brain before it invents other bad ideas. Worse ideas.

After numerous drinks, Leorio’s cheeks glow magenta. He reclaims one of the pillows that Kurapika has monopolized. Buries his face against its stench. Pancake batter, too many pinches of salt. How can Kurapika bear to even touch these?

A hand settles over Leorio’s hair. Shuffling motions, a slow storm visiting the dark waves. Unable to help himself, Leorio groans against the pillow.

Kurapika pauses in his petting. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Nn. No. Nice. So damn nice. Never stop.”

“Listen, Leorio.” Kurapika’s voice is back to its usual modulation. Is he sobering up? “I’ve actually been meaning to apologize.”

“S’okay. It was an ugly shirt. Would’ve tossed it out, sooner or later.”

“No, it’s not about that. I’m sorry I never called you back. You rang so much, but I never once picked up. I’m a terrible friend.”

Good thing Kurapika can’t see his face. Leorio wouldn’t know what expression to show, otherwise. To think that Kurapika is acknowledging all this. . . . “You’re busy. You got shit to do with Nostrade. I know that.”

“That’s no excuse. What if you had something critically important to say? An emergency to convey? I’d never forgive myself if you or Killua or Gon became gravely injured, and I was nowhere to be found.”

As heavy as his head is, Leorio pulls up his face from the pillow. He needs to look Kurapika in the eye. Needs to let him know. “That hasn’t happened. So no point beating yourself up. I only call you because — because I just — I miss you, Kurapika. That’s all.”   


Excruciating seconds of silence. Then Kurapika offers his hand to Leorio. “Give me your phone. I’ll type down my email address, so you can message me any time you need me.”

Eventually, everything dissolves around Leorio. Re-forms into another round of drinks. Another friend with whom to clink glasses. Hazy hotel room, Yorknew City.

Face ten times as flushed, Leorio slumps over a sofa. He’s demanding pornographic entertainment, of all darn things.

Zepile chuckles within a cloud of smoke. Refills his own glass. The man isn’t the least bit drunk. He wonders aloud about Leorio’s sudden desire for naked ladies prancing across the screen.

He’s just horny, goddamn it! Leorio punches a cushion to emphasize his point.

Zepile holds up his index finger, tells Leorio to hold that thought.

Once Zepile leaves, Leorio drifts off, drooling over the cushion. When he wakes, naked ladies are indeed prancing across the TV. 

Back again, Zepile grins at Leorio’s bleary eyes. Pats a bulky duffel bag between them. A treasure trove of pornography, passed down to Zepile by his big brother on his wedding day.

Smiling now, Leorio straightens up to watch. Curvaceous ladies. Poufed-up hair, painted faces. Bouncy in all the right places. 

As Leorio comes to terms with something, his smile fades. These women, they’re not doing it for him anymore. Strangers, all of them. Disparate beings whose perfume he can’t inhale. Strawberry lips he can’t savor. Skin he can’t explore with eager fingers.

Leorio tells Zepile to pop in another tape. The stars here aren’t to Leorio’s taste. It happens. There are always other stars to look at.

Tape after tape. Video after video. Scenario after scenario. The only thing pounding is Leorio’s temple. The only thing coming is a migraine. His ears throb with all the endless moaning. _Harder, honey. Deeper, Daddy. More, more, more._

Leorio can’t take any more, but for Zepile he soldiers on. Zepile is sharing his precious collection, after all.

The next tape involves a different class of porn star. Serena Sunshine, she’s called. Blond bob. Ruby earrings. Petite form. Breasts flatter than even Leorio’s.

Zepile rifles through the duffel bag again. Serena Sunshine, he gripes. She’s obviously Zepile’s least favorite in the rotation so far. Too twiggy. Too flat. Too theatrical in her initial pretense of innocence. Too feral once she and her costar buckle down to business.

Leorio grips Zepile’s shoulder to stop him. Leorio is hypnotized by everything he’s seeing on-screen. Throughout this adult movie marathon, he’s only now perking up.

Zepile hushes, noticing the drastic difference in Leorio’s response. Before long, Leorio has to excuse himself for the privacy of the bathroom. 

Leorio soon emerges, blushing for a different reason now. Zepile has been waiting to present him with a pile of tapes. He’s set aside all the ones starring Serena Sunshine. Passing down his top-notch porn to Leorio, the same way his brother did for him.

Leorio stammers, face flaming hotter than ever. But Zepile insists upon his acceptance. A token of their newfound friendship. Leorio will be better off appreciating these tapes alone, instead of fleeing for the toilet after each climactic scene.

As if on cue, this scene from the past dissolves again. Leorio is wrenched from the hotel room, transported two or three days later. 

Kurapika has fallen. Knocked out by a frightful fever. Leorio lays a damp washcloth over his friend’s forehead. Just then, a gasp behind him makes him turn.

Zepile is here again. Standing by the door. Staring down, dumbstruck, at Kurapika’s comatose form. When Zepile parts his mouth, Leorio shakes his head, violently. He already knows what Zepile wants to say. 

Leorio’s eyes dart toward Melody beside him. Melody either remains unaware of the mute exchange, or feigns ignorance for Leorio’s sake. 

When Melody steps outside to take a call from Basho, Zepile sits down next to Leorio.

Zepile blurts out what they’re both thinking: Kurapika looks exactly — even eerily — like Serena Sunshine, Leorio’s new favorite porn star.

Leorio acknowledges this. In the spirit of friendship, and mindful of the token Zepile has bestowed upon him, Leorio confesses the truth. He never would have reacted the way he did to Serena, if not for her uncanny resemblance to Kurapika.

Then does Leorio, about Kurapika . . .? Zepile’s question trails off.

Probably, Leorio admits. He’s trying not to think about it too much. But in all likelihood, he’s felt this way about Kurapika for a while now. But Kurapika can never know. No matter what. That would be a recipe for disaster, no doubt.

Back in the dorm room, Leorio wakes to vibrations. For some reason, his phone is slotted between his cheek and his pillow. 

Squinting, Leorio looks to the right. Kurapika is gone. 

Leorio presses his palm over the blanket beside him. The imprint Kurapika has left behind. Already cold. Of course.

Swallowing back his disappointment, Leorio glances at his phone. Time to check on his unread emails. Unfunny jokes from his classmates. Subheadings of the syllabus his pharmacology professor will cover next. 

Then five mysterious messages, sent from an unfamiliar email address.

_07:01 | Today_

_Leorio,_

_I neglected to inquire last night — should I wear any particular attire tomorrow? Please let me know, as I prefer to prepare for special occasions._

_I shall be grateful for your prompt reply._

_08:25 | Today_

_Leorio,_

_Would a formal suit suffice? I have almost nothing else in my closet, I confess. Even the cultural apparel I wore during our first and second encounters, I left them behind when I moved to this city for work._

_Still awaiting your response. I shall appreciate it even if it is no longer prompt._

_09:14 | Today_

_Leorio,_

_I am growing anxious. If you wish to dismiss my inquiries as frivolous, I understand, but at least indulge me with a sign that you woke up fine this morning. Perhaps I should have stayed, watched over you to make sure you were okay. You were, for all intents and purposes, incoherent by nightfall, and yet I left. Please forgive me for this lack of sound judgment._

_Wishing you good health, and waiting with bated breath for an update._

_09:36 | Today_

_You’re still punishing me with the silent treatment, I see. Should I take this to mean that you’re canceling our arrangement tomorrow afternoon? Or perhaps you never meant to meet me at all? Was this only your warped idea of a game? Was I the only fool to play along?_

_I wish I could laugh with you, but I can’t deny that it hurts like hell. Being the butt of your joke. Truth be told, I’m not certain we can stay friends after something like this._

_11:11 | Today_

_Goodbye, Leorio._

What in the world? Leorio’s confusion ramps up with every message. Clearly, the emails can only be from one person — Kurapika, who saved his contact information in Leorio’s phone the day before. Leorio can remember at least that much. 

But after that moment, it’s all a blur. Leorio . . . drank the rest of the beers, didn’t he? As for Kurapika, he refused to drink any more. Didn’t Kurapika half carry, half support Leorio, all the way to the bathroom, at one point? 

Phantom warmth ripples over his back. Yes, that’s right. Kurapika rubbed his back, soothed him as he . . . spewed out his guts into the toilet bowl. 

Oh, God. Upon this remembrance, Leorio bashes his face against the reeking pillows.

But what is Kurapika even talking about here? These questions about outfits, where did they come from? When has Kurapika ever obsessed about fashion choices? Leorio recalls a day at the shopping center with his friend. Back then, Kurapika picked out the first black hat, the first black turtleneck, and the first black jeans he saw. Literally.

Apparently, a special occasion is set to occur tomorrow afternoon. Whatever it is, it must be a big deal. Why else would Kurapika be sending such neurotic messages, giving such brusque goodbyes?

An arrangement between him and Kurapika. . . . No, it can’t be. Leorio laughs at the preposterousness of the idea, but once it takes root in his brain, it won’t go away. 

Leorio didn’t . . . ask Kurapika to go on a date with him, did he?

Leorio springs upright in bed. He did. He really fucking did. 

After denying his feelings for months, before finally succumbing to them. After declaring to Zepile that he’d never confess, never face the disastrous consequences. After suppressing every impulse of yesterday’s greed — to hold Kurapika’s hand on the train, to mount him in bed, to kiss his smart mouth.

After all this . . . Leorio still messed up. Silly drunk and stinking of vomit, he dared to ask Kurapika out. This alone is mortifying enough. But there’s still the matter of tomorrow afternoon’s date. Hours upon hours of potentially humiliating moments. By evening, will Leorio be begging for the soil to swallow him whole? He doesn’t know.

No, Leorio can’t fixate on possible catastrophes right now. Because despite everything — despite all the odds stacked squarely against him — Kurapika said yes.

There’s no time to waste. The rest comes later, but for now, Leorio should reassure Kurapika. He should let Kurapika know that, no matter what he’s wearing or what they’re doing together, Leorio wants to meet him.

Does Leorio’s reply contain too many exclamation points? How else can he communicate his overflowing enthusiasm for this date? 

Leorio pauses to reconsider, then shrugs. He adds a smattering of heart emoticons, for good measure.


End file.
